Nicola Griffith's Blog, page 59

Shut out: measuring disability and segregation in US cities

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WalletHub ranks the 150 Best and Worst Cities in the US for Disabled People. They measure ‘Economy,’ ‘Healthcare,’ and ‘Quality of Life.’ They list their methodology, including weightings. The criteria they use to assess Quality of Life, which is what interests me most, include:

Percentage of disabled residents
Number of wheelchair-accessible restaurants per 1,000 residents
Number of wheelchair-accessible trails per capita
Presence of Lyft wheelchair accessible vehicles
Walkability
Percentage of buildings built in 2000 or later (much more likely to be wheelchair accessible)
The weather

The focus seems to be on mobility impairments. They don’t rank other accessibilities—presence of ASL interpreters, state funding for vocational resources, etc. But in their terms, the top three big cities for crip quality of life are Honolulu, San Francisco, and New York. Seattle ranks 23 of 150.

In terms of economy (which includes affordability and job discrimination) and healthcare, Seattle does much worse, ranking 111 and 42 respectively. But I have excellent healthcare (at least for now; don’t even get me started on next year) and I’m a writer, so employment discrimination doesn’t affect me much.

Seattle is a fine city: a bit pricey, a bit wet in winter, and eye-rollingly indecisive when it comes to decisions on transport infrastructure, but the best city I’ve encountered in this country. This is the place we chose more than 20 years ago when I finally got Resident Alien status because it has the best climate—politically, geophysically and economically—in the US. Also, it’s near the water, there are lots of trees, and people here know how to queue, which for me is a proxy for the kind of rules-based civility that I cherish. That civility sometimes crosses the line into after-you-no-after-you diffidence that can be dangerous (especially on the road) but if you add in the many pubs that sell British beer, the understanding of how to make a good cup of tea (and coffee), and the presence of excellent bakers and chocolatiers, staking our future on Seattle was a good decision. Admittedly it’s awful trying to travel from here—getting to any other major city involves flying for hours, or sitting on a train for days—but we knew that and it seemed a reasonable exchange for the good bits.

When we chose this city, though, I was not using a wheelchair; I was not using crutches; I wasn’t even using a cane. Now I am, and physical access is beginning to assume great significance.

Public transport is pretty good, mostly. Of course, you have to be able to get to the bus stop in order to use the fancy kneel-down or lower-the-lift buses, and then the nifty street-level streetcars or light rail, and without a car this is not possible from our house. We live at the bottom of a very steep hill, and even if I had superhuman arm power, there are no sidewalks, there are blind curves, and the city helpfully built an insurmountable berm across the bottom of our driveway. Perhaps if I lived in a condo in one of the denser city neighbourhoods, maybe everything would be groovy. That is, if I could get into the bars and restaurants—if I could levitate over this two-inch lip on the so-called wheelchair ramp, or open that supposedly ADA-compliant door, or navigate those narrow spaces between tables, then float magically up the flight of stairs to the bathroom and pass through the immovable-slab of a door like a ghost.

But the weather here does suit someone with MS: not too cold, not too hot (except for this week, which is going to be scorching); not too dry (except in summer) and not too wet (except in winter). Other cities that rank high in terms of accessible infrastructure mostly have terrible weather for someone like me—that is, they get way too hot for way too long. (Also: bugs.)

So unless Kelley or I get offered a fabulous job in Canada or New Zealand or Ireland, we’ll probably stay. At least for now.

8/6 #CripLit Twitter Chat: Writing Disability

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Image description: A bright yellow background with an icon of a book on the left and a laptop screen on the right, flanking text: “#CripLit Twitter Chat, Writing Disability, August 6, 2017. 4pm Pacific/7pm Eastern. Co-hosts: @Nicolaz and @DisVisibility.”

#CripLit Twitter Chat

Writing Disability

Sunday, August 6, 2017

4 pm Pacific/ 7 pm Eastern

Co-hosts: @nicolaz and @DisVisibility

You are invited to the ninth #CripLit Twitter chat co-hosted by novelist Nicola Griffith and Alice Wong of the Disability Visibility Project®.

We’re both writers of fiction and nonfiction. We’re both readers. We want to talk about the experience of writing about and from being disabled—how it feels, what we love, what we hate. We want to talk about all kinds of writing: fiction and drama, poetry and creative non-fiction, journalism and personal essays. We’re interested in why we want to write about or from the perspective of disabled characters, or perhaps why we need to. We want to look at the kind of narratives we’ve seen a lot—Cure narratives, Pity narratives, Outcast narratives—and the kind we might sometimes write ourselves: Wish Fulfilment, Coming Out, Triumph, Norming narratives. What are they? What are some examples of each? What’s good about them? What’s bad? Why do we want/do not want to write them? How can we learn to do it better?

Additional Links

Towards an Intersectional Queer Crip Syllabus, by Tovah Leibowitz, Autostraddle, May 23, 2016
Writing Without Pity, Out of the Binders, April 4, 2015
Stylish Negotiations, Emily K. Michael, Brevity, July 14, 2017
How to Write About Your Disability, by Rebecca Swanson, The Rumpus, June 28, 2017

How to Participate

Follow @DisVisibility and @nicolaz on Twitter for updates.

When it’s time, search #CripLit on Twitter for the series of live tweets under the ‘Latest’ tab for the full conversation.

If you might be overwhelmed by the volume of tweets and only want to see the chat’s questions so you can respond to them, check @DisVisibility’s account. Each question will tweeted 6-8 minutes apart.

Check out this explanation of how to participate in a twitter chat by Ruti Regan: https://storify.com/RutiRegan/examplechat

Check out this captioned #ASL explanation of how to participate in a chat by @behearddc:

https://www.facebook.com/HEARDDC/videos/1181213075257528/

Introductory Tweets and Questions for 8/6 Chat

Welcome to the #CripLit chat on Writing Disability. This chat is co-hosted by @nicolaz & @DisVisibility. Please remember to use the #CripLit hashtag when you tweet.

If you respond to a question such as Q1, your tweet should follow this format: “A1 [your message] #CripLit”

Q1 Roll call! Please introduce yourself and share any links to your work or anything else about yourself. #criplit

Q2 Do you write about disability? What kind of #criplit stories do you write?

Q3 What are the joys/challenges (physical, emotional, mental/intellectual) of writing disability? #criplit

Q4 What are some disability narratives: Cure, Outcast, Pity, Triumph, Wish Fulfilment, Coming Out? Which do you love/hate? #criplit

Q5  What kind of stories are missing? How do we expand disability narratives? How do we get more #criplit on shelves and screens?

Q6 What’s your approach to writing about disability? #criplit

Q7 Should disabled writers write only stories with disabled characters, or about   issues? #criplit

Q8 Are you ever tempted to tone down the disability in your work in order to be ‘more publishable/marketable’? #criplit

Q9 Do you see parallels between #criplit narratives and those of other marginalised groups: #ownvoices stuff by queer, POC, immigrants, etc?

Q10 Would you want to take a class/workshop for crip writers? What would it be like? Are there any you’d recommend? #criplit

Thank you for joining our #CripLit chat. Please continue the conversation!

A Storify will be up tomorrow. Check the #CripLit hashtag. Feel free to contact @DisVisibility @nicolaz with any ideas/feedback

An open letter to all writing programmes, workshops, and retreats

Dear Writing Programmes:

Everything you do—classes, retreats, workshops—should be accessible. Many of you are not.

I’ve heard all your excuses: But we love the quaint/rustic/boho vibe, and that will be ruined if we have to change! But we can’t have our woods/private chef/coziness if we move to an accessible space! But it’s important we give the students an inexpensive experience, and access costs money!

I have no sympathy for your excuses. To disabled writers like me it does not matter how beautiful/cosy/inexpensive your traditional/sorority/in-the-woods space is because we can’t access it. If we can’t visit, to teach or write, then it’s not beautiful or welcoming or inexpensive, it is a fenced enclosure with a huge red sign on the gate saying CRIPPLES KEEP OUT.

Twenty percent of the US population is disabled. How many of your participants are? If the answer is less than 20%, ask yourself why. Explain to me why it is acceptable to bar your retreat/programme/workshop to disabled writers but not acceptable to bar women, writers of colour, or queer writers.

Not every programme can become accessible overnight. But every programme can commit to a public timetable for becoming accessible. If you’re not willing to welcome us, you are saying, We don’t care about disabled writers, we don’t want your stories, disabled people don’t matter.

So here’s a public promise: after I have fulfilled my immediate contractual obligations, I will no longer support in any way any writing-related programme or organisation that does not have a public commitment to and specific timetable for becoming accessible. I will call on other writers to do the same. In addition, all writing programmes should include their accessibility policy and access information on their website. If you are not accessible say so plainly so that those of us who are disabled don’t have to work to find out we’re not welcome. Disabled people do too much work to survive already. Don’t put this work on us. Be clear. Be brave. Do the right thing. We’re watching.

 

Trans in the military

Today President Donald Trump announced on Twitter that he is banning trans people from serving in the US military:

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I have no idea if he can enforce this or in what manner or timeline his ban will unfurl. I don’t know and I don’t care why he is doing this; why doesn’t matter. This is a vile thing to do. I feel for trans people everywhere. Go read Cheryl Morgan’s take on the issue.

Quick housekeeping

The first part of my PhD story, Opportunity, vanished overnight but it’s now back. Sorry about that!

My name is No

My inbox has reached epic proportions. Many of the emails are requests: Come to this conference, signal boost that worthy cause, judge our competition, visit my class, contribute to our anthology/video game/brainstorm/policy session about women/queer/disabled people. It’s lovely to be asked, but I have a novel (and other stuff) to write and I’m already scheduled for, and talking about, teaching and school visits. So for the majority of requests the answer will have to be No.

If I’ve already said Yes, or we’re talking about it, this is not aimed at you. But to those of you to whom I have not yet responded, I will. And if it’s for something between now and late spring (when I have a book coming out) it will probably be No (unless it’s very interesting…).

Here’s Meghan Trainor to help you understand:

My name is No.

My number is No.

My sign is No.

You need to let it go.

Nah to the ah to the no no no.

Hat tip to Angie Bennett, a medievalist.

A piece of my heart

Image description: New international access icon. A white figure on square blue background with rounded edges representing a disabled person actively propelling their wheelchair.

Image credit: Sara Hendren & Brian Glenney

Image source: http://www.accessibleicon.org

Each of us knows we are not our friends’ and families’ number one priority. Important, yes. Top of the list, no. Most of us, though, don’t have to face the evidence of a loved one’s blatant disregard for our comfort, safety, and well-being every time we approach their home. As person who uses a wheelchair, I do.

Every time a friend or family member buys, builds, or rents a place I can’t enter, they cut out a piece of my heart. They add to the vast and escalating segregation of my life. I feel unseen, unimportant, and unwelcome. Every time it happens a less-than-lovely voice in my head whispers, Well, that’s not a very smart choice. Don’t you understand that as you age/have babies/grow your circle of friends, you and they will be grateful for universal design. Universal design works for everyone, in every stage of their life. That voice might be less than lovely, but it’s not wrong.

When you break a leg or have surgery on your knee, you’ll be glad you don’t have to try hop up those steps with no rail to hang onto. I’ll be glad, too. When your child brings their baby over, you’ll be glad neither of you has to haul that buggy up the steps. I’ll be glad, too. When it comes time to sell, and you have multiple bids because in addition to the usual real-estate hungry first-time buyers you’ll have all those whose choices are usually severely limited by the availability of accessible space—crips, old people, people with small children, and smart people with friends and relatives—you’ll be very, very glad. Supply and demand, baby. Universal design is a good investment.

Disabled people are 20% of the population. You know one of us whether you realise it or not. Why aren’t you paying attention? Why aren’t you being smart? Universal design is good for you, your friends, and your bank account. Also, it makes me glad; it heals my heart.

More Hild-inspired art

Two new entries on the page of Hild-inspired art and cat pictures:

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From Scott at Big Rock Forge, a wonderful seax inspired by Hild’s favourite edged weapon, and based on the Hurbuck style. Instead of a black (cow horn) grip, this one has a bird’s eye maple grip and ancient fossil mammoth bone/brass bolster. For more see Big Rock forge’s Facebook page

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This is Rocket, guardian of the Prelinger Library. Sent by Megan.

There are now two dozen Hild-inspired pictures. Go take a look. Happy Sunday.

The story of my PhD, Part 5: Future

This is Part Five of the story of my doctorate—the who, why, when, what, and how of it—based on questions from readers on this blog, Facebook, and Twitter. It is in five parts:

Opportunity: How I became a PhD candidate even though I had no degree
Decision: Why I wanted a PhD
Choice: How I chose my subject/university/supervisor
Experience: What challenges (personal and academic) I faced and how I solved them
Future: What impact a PhD may have on my writing, and more

For context you might want to read the PhD thesis first, or at least the abstract. If you have further questions, use the comments.

Future

Will the study undertaken and understanding reached on the way to getting a doctorate change my fiction? Yes. It already has.

Twenty years ago, just before I wrote The Blue Place, I wrote a novella, Season of Change. It wasn’t bad. I sold it to an editor for a tidy sum. I pulled it from publication. I explain why in an essay, “As We Mean to Go On,” that I wrote with Kelley:

True fiction rings pure and clear when you flick it, like a crystal wine glass. If it’s flawed, it doesn’t matter how good it looks, it doesn’t matter whether the prose gleams or the metaphors are as perfect as circles: when you flick it you get nothing but a dull buzz.

[…]

[The novella] was a very personal piece—about a woman who is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis—and I thought it was both brave and beautifully written. (I always think that about a newly-finished work: My baby really is a genius!) I handed it to Kelley, beaming. She read it, looked troubled, and said, I don’t think this works. I frowned. I stayed calm. I asked why: was it the imagery? The character? No, no, she said, they were fine. What, then? She frowned and said she needed to think about that. Two days later, she was still thinking: she was sorry, but she couldn’t pinpoint the flaw; I’d papered it over so well she couldn’t find it, but it was there. The story didn’t ring quite true.

At this point we’d been living together seven years. I trusted her. So I took the novella apart looking for the flaw. I held it up to all the bright critical lights I could bring to bear; I hefted it, emotionally, and found it pleasing; I ran through the phrases in my mind, and I couldn’t find anything wrong. Not a thing. I agonised: I believed Kelley, but I couldn’t find the flaw. Maybe she was wrong. So I sent it to a magazine and by return mail got a contract, for what at the time was a princely sum, and a letter of fulsome praise. I signed the contract and cashed the cheque. But I felt uneasy, as I usually do when I rationalise. That unease grew, and grew, and grew, until one day about three months after I’d sold it, I took the novella out of a drawer, and flicked it one more time, and listened, and heard a sickening buzz. I still didn’t know what was wrong with it, but clearly something was, so I returned the money and told the editor I was very sorry, but I was pulling the story. Why? he said. I don’t know, I said, but it’s not right.

Now, of course, I know what the problem is—but it’s taken me years to figure it out. And one day I’ll rewrite the piece, only it won’t be a novella, and everything in it will be different.

It took a few years to get around to the rewrite I’d imagined; the novella would become a short story, I decided, “Small Dog Theory;” there would be no genre elements. Along the way I had realised the novella wouldn’t work because the ending epiphany was a narrative prosthesis. This is a term originally developed by David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder to describe literary or visual narratives that use disabled people as a metaphorical opportunity. (Read a fuller explanation of both the term and how it applied to my novella in Disability: Art, Scholarship, and Activism.) But a year ago, even though I thought I had figured it out and was ready to rewrite, I hadn’t and I wasn’t. I tried, but with each new sentence I grew more and more reluctant, more convinced that I could not, should not, change that final image. That image, narrative prosthesis or not, was the emotional point of the story. I could not shift it. I let the whole thing drop.

It turns out, that was not the problem. Writing my thesis helped me understand what was. In all my previous fiction I norm and centre the Other: my protagonists are queer women but the story is not about being a woman or being queer. Being a woman and being queer are normal to me, uninteresting as story material so I exclude the bits about being a woman and being queer that other writers might build a story around. In terms of being a queer woman, all my novels and stories are focalised heterotopia. The new novella is focalised around a queer woman, Mara. In those terms it, too, is a focalised heterotopia. But this novella does not norm the disabled Other. The narrator, Mara, is diagnosed with MS and becomes disabled. The story is about becoming disabled, and how Mara changes. In terms of disability, then, it is not a focalised heterotopia; it is a Coming Out story.

Coming Out stories have never interested me. Once I had read the lesbian classics as a teenager (Rubyfruit Jungle, Confessions of Failed Southern Lady, Kinflicks) I found them eye-rollingly predictable.1 Why would I write one?

It’s much easier to weigh choices when one understands those choices exactly. Until I had words for what my fiction usually does I could not describe why and how this novella deviated from that. All I knew was that it did, and that deviation made me uneasy. Once I understood that deviation, though, all I had to do was decide whether or not the novella was worth pursuing on its own terms. It had been on my radar for 20 years; something about it was necessary to me. So, yes; I decided it was worth three weeks of trying to find out.

Once I had submitted the first draft of my thesis to my advisor I had some time. Instead of turning to Menewood, as I had planned, I had one last shot at the novella. The headline is: It worked. I ended up with a much longer piece—still, officially, a novella—So Lucky, with the same final image that had been a narrative prosthesis but now was not. It’s still a disability Coming Out story, though. It will be published as a book in late spring 2018. More on that another time.

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The PhD, then, has already changed my work: So Lucky would not exist if I had not nailed down, exactly, how my fiction works. The question now is, Will my new-found clarity lead to change on my work-in-progress, Menewood?

No, I don’t think so. When I first began the critical review process last year, I became self-conscious about my prose, because I was taking it apart to see how it worked, and I was learning how to stick to a rigid argument-evidence-analysis writing schema. I’m no longer doing that; I no longer feel self-conscious. Now I just feel clear. How long will it take me to write Menewood? That I don’t know. It’s will be a very large book, longer than Hild. But I have a feeling it will go more quickly than it might have before the PhD. Watch this space.

◻︎

Will having a doctorate change the non-writing aspects of my life? It might. I still want to do some teaching, and I’m still interested in the research project I discussed in Part Two on the pay bias in publishing. (If there are any MA or PhD students out there who need a project, talk to me.) Possibly the biggest change the PhD might bring, though, is in the steadying of my interest in critical writing.

I’ve always reviewed and written critical essays. I want to do more of that. I also have a couple of more blue-sky critical essays I’d like to tackle, on the pleasures and perils of cross-reading (maybe of ventriloquising as a writer—writing from a stance that’s not your personal experience, whether race or gender or sexuality or disability), and how climate change has influenced myth down the ages. Then there are those nothing-to-do-with-narrative history pieces I’ve been itching to write for an age (except, of course, everything is narrative: everything is story) about immigration, culture change, and climate change. I’d also like to write more research-based pieces on disability.

Beyond that, I’m getting more and more interested in audio. My first new audio project will probably be reading my own thesis, because many people a) need audio to access the written word, b) just plain want it and find it convenient. And I do love to read aloud. I’m a writer; I want what I create to be as widely accessible as possible. In the 21st century, audio is very much part of that. After my thesis there are other audio projects lining up but I’ll talk about those closer to the time.

In other words, as my mother used to say, my eyes are bigger than my stomach—though even she admitted I have a pretty big stomach. So once Menewood is finished, things may get interesting around here. Stay tuned.

1 I enjoyed Tipping the Velvet but that, too, followed the classic lesbian coming-out structure: First love with a bisexual woman; heartbreak; weird sex-for-pay; meeting an older woman who is too twisted by her privilege to be a good match; and finally mature, womanly, perfect love.

The story of my PhD, Part 4: Experience

This is Part Four of the story of my doctorate—the who, why, when, what, and how of it—based on questions from readers on this blog, Facebook, and Twitter. It is in five parts:

Opportunity: How I became a PhD candidate even though I had no degree
Decision: Why I wanted a PhD
Choice: How I chose my subject/university/supervisor
Experience: What challenges (personal and academic) I faced and how I solved them
Future: What impact a PhD may have on my writing, and more

For context you might want to read the PhD thesis first, or at least the abstract. If you have more questions, use the comments.

Experience

While I was waiting to hear about my application to Anglia Ruskin as a PhD candidate, I came out as a cripple. I did my first deliberate public appearances in a wheelchair. I joined disability studies conversations on Twitter and Facebook. I founded, and co-host with Alice Wong, #CripLit, a regular Twitter chat for disabled writers. Before and during the process I was still working on Menewood, the enormous sequel to Hild. In addition I began a twice-weekly regimen of outpatient physical therapy, with daily home exercise, that rendered me useless for most the day twice a week. There was no give in my schedule. Then I was accepted as a PhD candidate.1

My first academic adviser/supervisor was Farah Mendlesohn, which was a huge relief: someone I knew! We began by sorting out library access. I was thousands of miles away and while you can do almost anything remotely, you can’t quite hit everything. So in addition to Seattle Public Library’s Interlibrary Loan (which was beginning to get very expensive) I got access to the University of Washington’s splendid library. I also arranged for Kelley to be able to pick up books on my behalf, because MS meant there would be times I couldn’t get there, and Joanne Woiak whom I’d met at a disability conference, very kindly made an office available to me. In addition to those libraries, a friend on a faculty at another institution gave me unofficial access to their library system, so I began working four systems to ferret out what I needed.

Even with four library systems at my fingertips I could not always access a particular article in a timely manner and so had to put out a call on social media. I’m lucky in that I have a fairly wide international network. But it was tricky calling publicly on that network because one of the first decisions I made about my studies was to keep them private. There were professional reasons for this but also personal: I hate learning in public. Specifically, I hate failing in public. As someone with no degree, a disability, and other professional commitments, and a chronic illness, failure was always a possibility. The decision to keep my candidacy a secret fit into my overall social media policy, which is to not discuss in public any part of my life that’s in process. I’m happy to dissect the big struggles and scary moments after the fact, but not while it’s actually happening.

Not being able to talk about this huge thing in my life publicly (my friends knew, mostly) led to a real throttling down of my public conversation. If I spent the whole day researching the topoi of queer literature it didn’t leave me time to do much else apart from spend time with Kelley and occasionally (far, far less than I would like) close friends—neither of which I generally discuss in public, either. So there were weeks without blog posts, or tweets, and many months without Instagram (I forgot it existed). And when I did blog or tweet it was usually on disability-related topics.

◻︎

In Choices I talked about how I like to leave big decisions as late as possible. For one thing, it’s a lot easier to leap enthusiastically into a project if you’re not worrying about how hard it might be; for another, I’ve never seen the point of doing the work necessary to choose the right path until you have to. I had been hoping I would not have to; I had been telling myself a story about how getting a PhD, having a life, writing a novel, creating a new online community, all while keeping myself healthy in the face of MS, was totally doable. All I would have to do is set my will to stun.

After my first two tutorials/Skype meetings with Farah I began to get a sense of the enormity of the work ahead—a single year to get up to speed on literary theory, learn how to think like an academic, and write a thesis—and realised the story I had told myself was a fairytale. It wasn’t possible to do everything. Something would have to go.

I actually considered dropping physical therapy. But while healthy people can afford to get a bit out of shape; people with MS can’t. If I got too far behind on the physical curve I would lose function forever. With MS, Use it or lose it is not just an aphorism. #CripLit wasn’t taking that much time, especially early on. (Later, when we tried a couple of specialised chats with multiple hosts, it became more labour intensive. But that lay ahead.) Public appearances, accepting commissions for this and that, yes, I could put those on hold. The essay series I was thinking about, ditto. I made apologies and got back to work.

As the days began to shorten a little and I could smell the abandoned apple orchard a few lots north, I got deeper and deeper into critical language, and on the days when I sat down to work on Menewood I found myself more and more self-conscious with my prose, more and more tethered to the here-and-now instead of being able to slip into the seventh century. And when I did finally manage to fall into the past, I’d come back to find critical language unreadable and I could not afford the time it took to readjust. I started to dread switching back and forth. It felt more and more like hitting a bruise. Then one day I just couldn’t. I sat outside watching a squirrel with a windfall apple in its mouth run frantically back and forth along the back fence, not sure whether to run from me on one side or the cat in the other direction, and I thought, You have to choose.

I had hit a natural pause in Menewood. Hild’s life had just changed violently; while I knew what happened next in outline I did not yet see it or smell it; I’d need a few days to do nothing but stare into the distance. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do that while all these new concepts were unfurling in my head, both in terms of disability and literary theory. And the clock was ticking: I had to submit before 27 May, 2017. I was pretty sure that if I focused I could get the thesis done much earlier. I weighed it in my head. Yes, I would get the first draft done before the holidays, send it out for feedback (which would take weeks over the holidays), and pick up Menewood again. That turned out to be a fairy story, too.

◻︎

I suspect most PhD researchers go through a feeling of isolation. This was especially acute for me. I was thousands of miles from campus, working remotely. I could not talk about my work with other academics in the same field. I could not hang out with fellow researchers over coffee or beer. My only contact with the world of academia was through Farah, my supervisor, on Skype.

I’m a reasonably successful professional. I’ve been learning and writing a long time; I know how I learn and produce, I know my process. I am confident of my writing. But I knew nothing about academia—far less than any other PhD candidate. Most candidates have already come through years of undergraduate then graduate experience. I had none; I did not know what was expected of me, how the system worked, or how to think about the problem. Farah, on the other hand, has vast experience of academia, and has supervised many students to the successful conclusion of their PhD. But she was used to working with younger people who had never managed a major writing project before.

I don’t know how long it usually takes for a supervisor and a candidate to settle in to a harmonious working relationship, for each to truly understand what the other wants, expects, and needs. But Farah and I like and trust each other, we both have a lot of experience of managing dissimilar communication architecture, and we were both invested in making this work. Eventually we figured it out: I had a clear picture now of where I wanted to go and how I might do that; I would just go away and write the first draft; if I needed help or suggestions for reading, I’d email. Everything was on track. And then Farah left Anglia Ruskin to take a post at another university.

Thankfully, Farah had already sorted out who would be my supervisor at ARU, Tiffani Angus, and arranged with the university for her to stay on as an external academic advisor. I had talked to Tiffani before on Twitter and by email (she’s a Clarion alum) so she was not a total stranger. I wasn’t worried. I went back to my draft.

◻︎

Setting Menewood aside had freed up the roaming, creative part of my mind and when summer was just past its prime I had my flash of revelation and come up with a new portmanteau term, focalised heterotopia.

I was excited. I saw that all those promises I had made in the prima facie case about sticking to work from the last ten years was not going to work. The corpus I wanted, I needed, to talk about, that I wanted to trace my development through, was all six novels. It was very clearly in direct opposition to regulations but there again my whole candidacy was a miracle to start with, so, eh, fuck it: I was going to do this my way.

The draft took shape fast. It was far too long (50% too long) but it said most of the things I wanted it to say. It would need work, of course, but it was a good beginning. I sent it to Farah just as she moved city, house, and job and settled down to think about Hild and Menewood secure in the knowledge I would not have to think about the PhD for a few weeks.

◻︎

It’s really quite extraordinary what stories I tell myself. The one about getting back to Hild over the holidays was a complete lie. But I’ll talk about that in Part Five.

◻︎

After the holidays, far more quickly than I expected, Farah got back to me with her comments: all the building blocks were there but not in the right order, there was too much of it, and the language was all wrong.

It was not the same as getting an editorial letter about one of my novels. Those letters could be very long and detailed but the editor never touched the actual text. Farah sent me back a document with bits deleted and big chunks moved around. It took me a while, maybe a week, to get my head around it—to even figure out what she was talking about. I’m not sure Farah would agree with this, exactly, but in the end I worked out that the solution was to turn the whole thesis into a fractal: the deeper you go, the more the pattern repeats. Every chapter was a mini-thesis: argument, evidence, analysis. Every section was a mini chapter: argument, evidence, analysis. Every paragraph was a mini-section: argument, evidence, analysis. I fell asleep to Argument, evidence, analysis. I woke up thinking, Argument, evidence, analysis. Farah had told me from the start that this was what academic writing is supposed to do: State your argument, present your evidence, occasionally provide context for that evidence, then analyse the fuck out of it. It just took me a while to integrate that advice.

I refocused, rewrote, and cut cut cut.

◻︎

At the same time I was rewriting, I was also getting sucked into an ARU admin loop. As I’ve explained in an earlier section, one of the perils of being first—I was the first Creative Writing by Published Work candidate ever at Anglia Ruskin University; I was their first remote candidate; I was their first no-degree candidate, etc.—is that the regulations are not tried and tested. It was spring, and time, apparently, to renew my registration. But I couldn’t renew my registration until I could show I’d taken Stage 3 training. I couldn’t take Stage 3 training (learning how the viva voce works and how to prepare) until I renewed my registration. This was not the only loop but it proved to be the most intractable. For example, I had to submit my thesis to TurnItIn to check for plagiarism before my supervisor would okay it for final examination, but I couldn’t do that until I’d completed Stage 3 training.

In addition, I was seeking a disability waiver, a Reasonable Accommodation (I always saw that phrase in capital letters) to allow me to do my Stage 3 training remotely, via Skype, rather than having to fly thousands of miles to Cambridge. The viva itself, of course, had to be done in person but I desperately did not want to have to cross the Atlantic twice in three months. (My record is five transatlantic trips in 10 months, more than 15 years ago when I was much fitter, and it nearly killed me.)

I had to get a letter from my neurologist, but the waiver process went remarkably smoothly, thanks to Jane Bousfield and Gabriella Guiffrida, and in fairly short order I had my SRA, or Summary of Reasonable Adjustment. Then Dr Charlotte Nevison (aka Charlie), the Director of Research Students, gave me my training by Skype. It was extremely helpful. I asked and she answered many questions that I’m not sure she’s used to getting—questions related very much to physical access issues. I could see her getting thoughtful.

A few days later, she emailed me to say she had just completed some kind of awareness training regarding disability. She would be the chair of my examination committee and she thought she could make a case Anglia Ruskin for me to do the viva itself remotely. Would I like her to try?

I hesitated. My candidacy was unusual enough without yet another first attached: the first PhD viva without being in the room. How far could I stretch this firstness before I started getting imposter syndrome (or, worse, before others started giving me the side-eye)? Also, I really wanted to be there for my own PhD. And to be in the UK to see my family, and old friends. And to be there at the opening of the Visible Girls: Revisited exhibit in Hull. I had been braced for the travel: I’d booked the plane tickets, the hotel, the transport from the airport, everything.

But I have MS. One, if I did this, I would be ill two to four weeks after I got back. It always happens. Most of the time I’m unwell for a month or so then recover, but every now and again I’m really sick, and I lose a bit more function, function that’s gone forever. Was it worth the risk? When there had been no choice, I thought it was, but that was measuring travel risk against a PhD. Now I was measuring that risk not against the PhD but against pride, against wanting to be there, in person, for my triumph. (At this stage I knew I was doing good work.) Two, if I did this I would break trail for others, other candidates with disabilities who might not have the choices I did.

I told Charlie: Yes, please try.

The request started working its way up the bureaucratic ladder. Charlie did all the work; all I had to do was wait. And focus on the rewrite of my thesis.

◻︎

Eventually I had something submittable. I gave it to my new supervisor, Tiffani who shared it with Laura Dietz (who apparently was my Second Supervisor; I had no idea I had a second supervisor), who between them pointed out a couple of typos and one possibly controversial statement. It was still a few hundred words over the limit but Tiffani told me about an obscure rule that if a block quote [ETA: A block quote of my own words] is over 50 words, those words don’t count. So I consolidated quotes shamelessly into block quotes, fixed the typos, and added a footnote to address the potential controversy.

This was the beginning of April. I was ready, but the registration issue had not yet been sorted. I began to fret, just a bit, about timing. I kept remembering the emphasis in the acceptance letter:

…submit your thesis ONE YEAR FROM DATE OF LETTER

Time was marching on.

I got email from Charlie: the Vice Chancellor had signed off on my request to take my viva remotely. An official letter followed: We would begin at 2:30 pm UK time—which was 6:30 a.m. in Seattle. Appended were just-formulated regulations written to cover not-in-the-room exams. I would have to have a technical rehearsal with a member of ARU IT staff, John Manning.

I thought a remote viva would entail using an offsite video conference facility and being officially moderated by a faculty member from another university. I was delighted to find that Skype would be fine. John and I connected, checked light and sound levels, chatted about nothing in particular for three minutes, and then he said he had enough to make his report and it all looked a-okay to him. The next day I got the official thumbs-up. I cancelled our travel reservations and made a couple of difficult phone calls, including one to my soon to be 92-yr-old father telling him no, I would not see him this summer after all.

Then I sat back and thought, Holy shit. This is really happening.

◻︎

Thanks to the hard work and determination of Emily Downing and Brigita Mileryte, and their wizardly ability to reconcile a conflict in the CW PhD PW regulations, my registration issue was sorted. I was able to submit my draft thesis for a plagiarism check. It came back fine. (I knew it was all my own work but I was still relieved; I know how easy it is to slip and think someone else’s words are your own.) So now it was time for my mock viva. But, due to scheduling problems, it would have to be after I submitted the final thesis. So if the mock viva highlighted any terrible flaws, tough, it would be too late.

I submitted my thesis. I smiled to myself for a day, then asked Tiffani and Farah a couple of questions to clarify a few points about the viva. Don’t worry! they both said. You’ll be fine! I wasn’t worried. I’ve talked about my books for years: to live audiences on two continents, on TV, on the radio, in my living room, on social media. I could do it in my sleep. I actually enjoy it. The viva would be an opportunity to talk to smart, engaged people. I was not worried I just wanted clarity.

Until I had a horrible realisation: a viva is designed to test not whether you know your subject (which obviously I did, because I’d written the books under discussion) but whether you can discourse academically on the subject. In other words, this is where you proved whether you belong to the club. I had spent years talking to readers but I had never, not once, had a conversation about the academic theory and discourse behind the thesis about those books. I had no idea how to do that, and no clue how to get ready. Now I began to worry.

My friend Kate Macdonald came to the rescue again. We arranged a not-quite-mock viva by Skype. Ahead of time she sent me four questions of the kind she thought I ought to be able to talk about. I read them and my mind went utterly blank. I had no fucking idea what any of it meant. I printed them out and read them. I still had no idea. My breathing- and blink-rate accelerated.

That night when Kelley and I sat down for a beer, I waved the questions in the air and freaked the fuck out. I think it’s the only time in the whole PhD experience that I seriously contemplated failure. It didn’t last long. Kelley’s sensible conversation (and lots more beer, and about two pounds of hummus and carrot sticks) calmed me down. The Skype conversation with Kate a day or two later made me feel even better. By the time I sat down for my mock viva with Tiffani and Eugene Giddens I was calm.

The mock viva went well; very well, in fact. Eugene did most of the talking because he has done a zillion vivas. He was extremely knowledgeable and helpful. The real thing could last anywhere from one hour to three hours, he said, with 90 minutes being usual. He pointed to a few statements; he pushed here and there. I pushed back in a manner he approved. Tiffani challenged me on a couple of things that I handled without difficulty. They helped me figure out a better way to position my camera. By the time we were done I was clear on what I needed to do and how to prepare. Per Farah’s suggestion I marked my thesis up with highlights and sticky notes so I could find any section I needed at any time; I made some high-level notes about my research questions; I rehearsed a summary of my conclusions. Then I relaxed. What would be, would be.

◻︎

I’d like to say, Friday the 23rd of June dawned fresh and clear, my mind razor sharp. But I was up before dawn—4:00 a.m.—and I was so focused on what lay ahead I couldn’t tell you what the sky looked like. I ate a big breakfast of bacon and eggs and drank tea. I’m sure Kelley and I chatted about something or other but I don’t remember any of it.

At 6:20 a.m. I opened Skype—and there was a message from ARU: Missed call from John Manning. Fuck. Had I got the time wrong?? I called back—and surprised two women sitting at a table with a plate full of pastries. They introduced themselves: Maggie and Helen. Maggie explained that Charlie, the chair, wasn’t there yet. Tiffani stuck a hand in front of the camera and waved. After another couple of minutes I backed away gracefully and ended the call until they summoned me. At least now there would be time to finish my tea.

Then we began. For real.

Tiffani wrote down all the questions for me so I know how it went, otherwise I would not remember much (except eyeing that plate of pastries, and absolutely longing for one).2 I do know Maggie began by saying my books were wonderful and the thesis exemplary, and that I thought, Well, this might go okay... Then I remember Maggie saying, We need to chat amongst ourselves now so why don’t you go away and we’ll call you back in ten minutes? And I obediently ended the call and wandered out of my office.

Kelley came rushing through from the kitchen. “What’s wrong?!” I blinked. “Did the connection break?” No, I said. At least I don’t think so. “But it’s only been 34 minutes…” Huh. I’m sure I said something but I’ve no idea what. I don’t remember what I did for the next few minutes except that I held Kelley very hard.

When we got back on Skype the first thing Maggie said was, “Congratulations, Dr Griffith!” And I smiled wide enough to split the world. “We so wish you were here so we could give you a hug!” All I could think was, It’s over? and I want a pastry! I thanked everyone and then we were done. I was Doctor Griffith.

I felt utterly blank. I connected with Farah on Skype, and she was thrilled. I thanked her. She said, yet again, You’re the one who did the work! I said, again, But none of it would have happened without you.

It’s true. None of it would have happened without Hild, either. Or the conversations I’ve had with academics and friends over the years. And certainly none of it would have happened without Kelley. But it did happen. I am Dr Nicola Griffith.

Next: Future: What impact a PhD may have on my writing

1 Right on top of my acceptance, politics happened. I’m not going to rehash Brexit except to say it hurt then and it hurts now to watch fools throw away something great and good based on greed and fear. And it was not long after this that I got a sick feeling that I knew what was coming with Trump. I felt oddly homeless. It got much worse after the election.

2 If anyone’s interested I can share those questions, and some excerpts from the examiners’ reports, in a future post.